Cutting
by totalphangirl
Summary: Cosette is taken from the Thernardier's with scars both mental and physical... But could she have put some of them there herself? Not sure if this is fluff, but if it is then Valjean/Cosette fluff. Rated T for injury detail and themes of self-harm.


**Thanks for clicking on this story!**

**Well I want to warn you that this fic is a bit weird and dark and… well in fact it's downright horrible. I love Darling Cosette and I didn't write this to upset Cosette fans or anything. But it includes themes of self-harm that some will find very sad indeed. **

**It's not as seamless as I would have liked either…**

**I don't know whether I go the tone right at all… I don't know if this is what other people feel but I know that when I cut I feel this way. **

**If you came for the fluff then just read from after the page-break ;)**

She forced breath into her lungs, her spine throbbing; Madame Thernardier's whip had caused a rush of hot blood to swarm her back, slicing at her skin a little. As the girl turned her back, tears stinging her eyes, she heard the woman's words pierce her still. 'You stupid bitch,' she hissed, causing Cosette to flinch. 'How the hell did you knock it over you brat?'

The little girl clenched her eyes shut, remembering the feeling of dread that had churned within her when she knocked over Madame's clay bowl from the tabletop. The day had fallen like the swift diminuendo of music, stripped of its golden coat and dulling to a cautious grey as Cosette dropped her broom in hast and scrabbled about desperately trying to gather the little chinks of clay that jostled on the floor. It wasn't long until she felt Madame's rough hand against her shoulder, felt herself twist in fear for the inevitable strike that would bide it's time painfully, torturously, until it came slashing down onto her shaking spine.

Her dress now had another great tear in it, causing it to slouch from her shoulder and loll on her spindly arms. Satisfied with Cosette's punishment, Madame Thernardier tossed Eponine's dress and a sewing needle her way and told her to hurry up. Cosette hastily scrambled onto her knees, gathering up the needle and soft cotton to repair the tiny rip that had bloomed on Eponine's rich blue skirt. Tears continued to roll silently down her cheeks, cutting tiny track-ways through the thick mask of grime that coated her face.

As she fumbled around with threading the needle, her fingers slipped, allowing it to pierce the skin of her wrist.

'Blast!' Cosette mumbled in and undertone, watching a bead of scarlet form on her wrist and roll over to the side. She watched it for a second before wiping it away with a smudge of the finger. She knew immediately that this cut was different. She didn't know why; it was a self-inflicted, little-girl cut that dribbled an almost alluring red. It was nothing like the black crusty marks on her hands and feet.

She blinked for a second before stroking the needle gently along her wrist, along the sheet that embraced her purple veins.

The mark looked beautiful on her skin. It was her battle-wound, one to personify the foul words that spewed from Madame's mouth. As it grazed a sleek dint in her flesh she gave a little shiver, feeling her body relax. She paused, hovering the needle over her hand. Pained by the lack of stimulation her wrist glowed a fierce pink, her skin rose in neat bumpy lines, the veins of her arm tingled, responding, _listening _for once… Right here, right now, _she _was in control. _She _was the one formulating practiced rows of cuts against herself to off-set the disheveled zig-zags of blood that laced her back.

She found the strangest sanctuary, the strangest thrill within it. Her grubby, work-worn skin welcomed it, welcomed the calmness and control. Again, she stroked it gently along her veins, something growing inside her like a bodiless scream or a songful sigh… she didn't quite know how to feel. Her mind bellowed in protest but her body begged to be released. She cut again, not very deep, in the little nook of her arm.

Her breath was hitched and she scrunched up her face. Any sensation she had now felt was gone. She had not cut deep enough to draw any blood; her mind would never allow her hand to cut that hard, but she felt an almost pride at the sight of her scars, diverse to how she had felt before.

Her pride was soon set aside for guilt to swarm her, as her mind took over. It asked her what she was doing and she had no answer… it just felt liberating, indescribable.

But as daring footsteps drew nearer Cosette was quick to leave her arm and start sewing swiftly at the cut in Eponine's skirt, as petite and neat as the cut that brandished her wrist.

* * *

Valjean dabbed lightly at Cosette's back with a cloth. She was getting more used to baths now; over the course of two months she'd managed to unfold her little body from being crushed together, and had actually started to chat happily with her Papa. The sight of the scars on her back and arms were enough to stir a boiling anger in Valjean but he was capable of never letting it show. 'Are you going to clean your arms now?' he asked gently. Cosette smiled, taking the cloth from him and scrubbing at her body. 'Good girl!' he said encouragingly, letting his hands rest in the water. Cosette locked eyes with him, staring at them adoringly. Once again their strengthening bond kindled brightly as Valjean felt love rush to his chest.

As Cosette rubbed the cloth on the inside of her wrist Valjean felt his brow lace into a frown… about ten pink little scars were sliced ever so neatly against her wrist, stark against the whiteness of her skin. Valjean felt his body slump and then groan as he dropped his eyes in sadness. He knew all too well what the scars were…

Back in prison when he was nobody's Papa and was instead simply a number, Valjean remembered a common occurrence, one that haunted his mind more than the scars on his daughter's body. When the men were crammed into their cells, herded like rats to suffer in a stench-ridden, evaded hell, many were far from strong. He could never forget waking in the night to see one of the men sitting up on his bed, cutting deep scars on his wrist with sharp nails. They were as neat and formulated as Cosette's little cuts, planned, almost, as they fell in line with one another. Even in the darkness he could see blood fall from his hand in a dark dribble, landing soundlessly against the prisoner's rough coverlet.

He gave another sharp glance at Cosette's arm before helping her out of the bath and sending her off to get ready for bed. He gave the girl half-an-hour as he wondered what he should do next.

He could be mistaken of course; the innkeepers could have kept her still and forced the cuts into her flesh…

The very thought made Valjean screw up his face. No. Her other scars were nothing like that. He had made a vow with himself to never question Cosette's scars or ask her of her past… he felt as if he would almost be invading her privacy. What is past is gone.

But this was different. What if Cosette still felt the need to cut herself? what if one day she got upset and tried to _kill _herself? Could this innocent little girl possibly be suicidal?

Panicked by the thought Valjean abandoned the tin bathtub and stood up straight, shaking the water from his long sleeves. 'Cosette?' he called, making his way swiftly down the corridor. He stopped outside her door, hearing the tiniest whisper of conversation. In spite of himself he smiled; the little dear was talking to her doll again.

'Come in Papa,' a voice said from the other side of the door. Valjean pushed her door open to find her sitting on the edge of her bed with Catherine cradled to her chest. She smiled up at him, her hair hanging in rats' tails, still wet with bathwater.

'Hello dear, would you mind if I talk to you?'

'Of course!' she said, wriggling herself aside so Valjean could sit next to her on the bed.

'You see Cosette… well I need to ask you something…' He paused, fiddling with his hands.

'What is it?' Cosette enquired, cocking her head to one side and swinging her legs.

'Well… I understand this is a very tender issue but… I need to ask about your injuries.' Cosette stopped swinging her legs abruptly and hunched herself over. 'Cosette? Would that be alright?' he asked softly.

'I… yes. You can ask me,' she responded in a small voice.

'Thank you. I just noticed… when I was giving you your bath, well I saw something on your wrist. Do you mind if I have a look at your wrist pet?' Cosette glanced up at him reproachfully, her fingers tugging the sleeves of her nightdress down over her hands. She sucked in her breath.

'Alright,' she murmured, sounding as if she was on the brink of crying.

'It's alright Cosette, I just want to look.' Valjean took her arm gently in his hand, very slowly rolling the sleeve up her wrist. He made a soft little 'ah' noise when the scars came into sight, closing his eyes for a second before pulling the sleeve back over her skinny wrist. 'Cosette…' he started, but stopped. He folded his hands neatly in his lap, not sure whether to move closer to her or not. 'Cosette dear, did you… did you put those cuts there yourself?'

Cosette paused before giving a sad nod of the head. She clenched her hands into fists. 'Alright. Would you like to tell me why?'

There was another pause before Cosette slowly began to speak. 'At first it felt… well, it felt good. But after a day or so I hated the way they looked and they just looked like… all the other scars… ugly and horrible. I know it's not right but it made me feel better, because when people would say horrible things to me It would feel like they were all being released from the little cut.'

Valjean leaned over, taking her hand in his. 'I'm sorry you ever felt that bad, Cosette,' he said quietly. 'But I think you were very brave for telling me, so thank you.' Cosette lifted her head, shooting him a small attempt at a smile.

'Papa,' she started. 'I've never wanted to cut myself since I started living with you.'

Valjean returned the smile with warmth. He felt dizzy with relief. 'I'm very pleased to hear that. I love you, Cosette, and I don't want you to ever get hurt.'

'I love you too, Papa.'

And with that Valjean blew out her candle and left the room.

**The End**


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